Hermione: The Alleged Diaries of Severus Snape
by mzkelmer
Summary: Three years ago, Severus Snape's journals were uncovered. What was inside shocked a generation.
1. Default Chapter

"Hermione" The Alleged Diaries of Severus Snape by MzKelmer

I don't own them. Well some of them, but not most of them. Ok, I own one. The rest belong to JK Rowling and no infringement is intended.

Chapter 1 - Foreword

"She was Lo, plain Lo, in the morning, standing four feet ten in one sock...But in my arms she was always Lolita. Light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul." -Vladimir Nabokov, _Lolita_

Foreword by Amergin Clenergy

When asked to edit and write a foreword to the account of one of the most notorious scandals and subsequent mysteries ever to shock the Wizarding world, a writer must ask himself to question his own position on the matter. I have found my position a confusing one. While the actions described within are unquestionably monstrous, the reader may be swayed to sympathy with the protagonist even as he urges their disgust. It is because of this that I turn my first paragraph to a warning.

It goes without saying that no one knows what has happened to Severus Snape. All we know of his past is sketchy. What we know for certain is that he was born to Xavier and Lillian Snape in 1948. Seeing as all school records have been destroyed, his dates of induction and graduation have been lost. Severus Snape served Lord Voldemort for a period of time before fleeing to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry to take shelter under the wing of Albus Dumbledore, former Headmaster. Dumbledore states in his autobiography, _Albus Dumbledore_, that Severus Snape was both an extremely capable potions master and spy for the illustrious Order of the Phoenix, an Order that still exists today. He makes no mention of any events which occur in this text. We cannot be certain of many other events in Severus Snape's life, most of which are now subject to conjecture. We cannot even be sure this text is authentic. While this writer has performed many authenification spells that have all registered positive, it must be kept in mind that even magic is easily fooled. All that aside, I will proceed from this point with the assertion that the following passages are from the mind and quill of Severus Snape.

Another point of debate is the identity of Snape's Hermione. For the individual's protection her last name has been changed to Smith, though I feel this will do nothing to quell the unsubstantiated rumors that the Hermione in question is Hermione Granger. These are rumors I refuse to confirm or deny because of the questionable source of the text. Though I believe it to be authentic, I do this to avoid besmirching Ms. Granger should these events prove untrue. Because of Ms. Granger's disappearance and probable death, this is another fact which cannot be proven until this text can be confirmed from Severus Snape's own mouth. Sadly, it is an action which this writer sees as impossible.

So it is with this that I end my unilluminating foreword with the same warning as at its' start: as sympathetic as the writer may seem, keep in mind the following is not an endorsement of the acts within.

--Amergin Clenergy

A/N: As the opening quote suggests, Vladimir Nabokov's _Lolita_ was a drawing point for this piece. To avoid outright plagiarism, I'll try to keep the "Russian writer-ness" to a minimum from here on out.


	2. Education

Chapter 2- Education

"Don't touch me; I'll die if you touch me." -Vladimir Nabokov, Lolita

(Editor's Note- Hermione's last name has been changed to Smith in order to protect her identity.)

It is with both hopefulness and regret that I set quill to paper to write my story. No, not my story at all, as I do not merit a story of my own. I tell you the story of my Hermione, as all my experiences lead simply to her. Hopefulness that I may tell both our sides accurately. Regret that I must tell both our sides accurately.

I am gripped with the question of where to begin, as my usual methodical cataloging is not applicable to this tale. I am aware that some readers will find this account offensive, and I urge this response. While I endorse disgust as the correct response, I will not apologize for anything I have done. I accept all my actions, and will state them as the facts that they are and as plainly as possible. To further theatrically hammer the point; I have no regrets.

I guess the best place to start is at the start. Not our start, mind you, but mine. I am aware that most people, upon the eventual finding and inevitable publication of this manuscript, will be interested in only the "naughty bits" of the story, and I refuse to inflict that indignity on either Ms. Smith or myself. If one wants to read my fall from grace in all its fiery horror, I insist one also takes into consideration the rise, and make all judgments based on the presented information. As stated above, I intend to do my best to present that information in as unbiased a manner as possible.

I refuse to whine about my childhood like some trailer-inhabiting Muggle on a talk show. To be perfectly honest, my childhood was idyllic. I was the only child of parents who loved me and praised my qualities and nature. They were good people, raised me with strict moral guidelines, and encouraged my creative pursuits. In other words, any rumours that they were early supporters of Voldemort, or otherwise people of low regard, are preposterous. If anyone is to blame for my introduction to Dark magic, it is those children who attended Hogwarts with me.

In hindsight, I realize that children will be children, and children are cruel. However, when one is a child, it is impossible to realize that. I do admit I was an awkward child. I was the tall and gangly sort with a nose any bird would be happy to perch on. I preferred to dress in all black under my school robes, simply because it was easier to match clothes in the morning. Needless to say, I was a beacon for ridicule by my classmates, even the members of my own house.

The only subject at which I excelled was Potions. The logical nature of potions and the beauty of the names and nature of the ingredients captivated me. The luxurious pink of the thistle, the way "ampelopsis arborea" rolls off the tongue caressing the palate and teeth, I could continue for hours. I studied everything concerning potion making with a hunger I had never experienced before and, for my obsession, I was mocked even more. Perhaps the greatest humiliation, and a leading cause of my turning away from the light, was the mocking I received on behalf of my intelligence. Letting people know I cared about something only turned that thing into a weapon. To be cast down for my appearance was one thing, to be abashed for my passion was entirely another. I turned into myself to avoid the ridicule, which only served to make it worse.

In the middle of my seventh year, I was approached by a man claiming to be an emissary for a new movement. His name was Nathanial Grey and what I really remember about him were his hands. He had long pale fingers stained yellow from tobacco and they seemed to move with a mind of their own. He talked about a revolution: a movement in which all wizards would be equal and alike. To avoid sounding wistful for the darkest time the Wizarding world has seen, I will simply say that it sounded like a utopia to an emotionally tortured teenager. Grey said I had been recommended by Lucius Malfoy, an influential classmate of mine. I was flattered by the attention and possible friendship by someone as popular as Malfoy. After graduation, I joined the Death Eaters, as they became known.

Serving under Voldemort, at the beginning, was almost like becoming a celebrity. Everyone suddenly seemed to know who I was and wanted to be my friend, even though our identities were supposed to be secret. Women I would never have dreamed of approaching came up to b me /b and asked me to talk about potions. Most of these conversations would end with the lady stubbing out her cigarette and leading me back to her home. For a while, it was a perfect, golden life. A life of popularity and romance that I had only dreamed of at school.

It wasn't until I was in too deep that I realized what Voldemort's true plan was. Part of my job was researching potent poisons that would cause pain but not death. I was told at the time that they would be used to get information from criminals. It was too late that I learned the 'criminals' were just poor Muggle-borns. I remember the first time I saw someone tortured with a potion I created. Her name was Anne, and she had been in my year at Hogwarts. She was the smartest girl in my class, and I admit I had had a bit of a crush on her in my schooldays. I suppose it was because Voldemort knew she was my classmate that he invited me to attend her 'questioning' and I foolishly did as I was told. What I saw there nearly killed me, and I fled back to Hogwarts that same night, imaginary blood staining my hands as it had truly stained Anne's entire body and my robes.

Dumbledore, a great wizard and man, offered me shelter if I would do only two things for him: become Potions master and never tell Voldemort that I hated him and everything he stood for.


	3. Beginnings

Chapter 3-

"I am trying to describe these things not to relieve them in my present boundless misery, but to sort out the portion of hell and the portion of heaven in that strange, awful, maddening world…" -Vladimir Nabokov, Lolita

Disclaimer: Not mine.

(Hermione's last name has been changed to Smith to protect her identity-AC, editor)

It was not until years later that I first saw her. Admittedly, it was hard not to see her based simply on her hair alone. I remember my first sight of her, now so many years ago. I was sitting at the excessively elevated High Table as the first years entered the Great Hall at Hogwarts. With the possible exception of my classes, there was little that bored me more than the Sorting Ceremony. It was due only to boredom with my colleagues that I saw her. If I recall correctly, Minerva McGonagall (who had made a rather noble habit of sitting next to me) had reprimanded me for sullenly staring at the tabletop instead of socializing. I believe I had just looked grimacingly up as she walked in.

The moment I first viewed her is set into my memory as if branded. She appeared from the half-light of the doorway, looking just like the rest of her classmates. She stared at the enchanted ceiling, her mouth slightly agape in awe. Her burnished brown hair extended in all directions as she ran a small hand through it, attempting to tame the beast of a coif. She then looked quickly to the children on her left and right before adopting a countenance of self-importance. It was strange. The face of a little girl openly displaying awe, alight with life, and then suddenly shutting down in the space of a second. It was oddly beautiful in its own way.

Please don't accuse me of paedophilia in its classical sense. There was no sexual attraction then, and I will not accuse her of being a nymphet, not at that point, anyway. She was simply a little girl to me and nothing more.

When Hermione began attending my classes, I ached for her. Her plight seemed so much like my own. Her knowledge was impressive, at least equal to that of a fourth-year, and every time she raised her hand, most of the students rolled their eyes or sniggered. I briefly considered moving her up to the appropriate level, but decided that she would be even more out of place among the older children. Instead, I discouraged all her displays of knowledge in my presence. The action I chose was undeniably harsh, but I was attempting to protect her from suffering the same school-day fate as I had. I would hate to see her pushed to put her beautiful brain to dark purposes. This is not a justification this is only a confession.

I intended to single her out whenever she raised her hand and chastise her alacrity before the entire class. I assumed, wrongly so, that a few harsh words would cause her to stop volunteering. Ms. Smith seemed more and more determined , as time passed , to prove to me she had the right to showcase her knowledge in whatever manner she saw fit. Unfortunately, the way she saw fit to display her knowledge was to be a very large pain in my backside.

My efforts may not have been wasted, though. She gained the friendship of two boys who troubled me greatly in their pre-pubescence. The ringleader of their little trio of trouble was the unabashedly famous Harry Potter. Along for the ride was his minion, Ronald Weasley. Hermione did her part to keep their feet on the ground and accompanied them on their mischief, much of which, I am convinced, was solely to make my life miserable.

I recall an occasion when I had given the three of them detention. I made them all clean caudrons while I graded papers at my desk. Just as I was grading and gleefully failing Seamus Finnegan, Potter managed to knock over a pyramid of iron cauldrons I'd set out for the next day's classes. I bought into the bait and left my work to yell at the boys. They began to argue, claiming that my cauldron arranging was an accident waiting to happen. All the while, Hermione stood to the side, her eyes on the ground. Naturally, my attention focused on the arguing boys rather than the supposedly castigated girl. After what I considered a thoroughly invigorating outburst , I returned to my desk to find something startling. All of my papers, including the ones yet unread, were marked as exemplary. Many included comments, in my writing, like 'way to go!' or 'I'm so impressed by your improvement!' There were far too many exclamation points for my taste. Obviously, they couldn't be handed out. I had cultivated for myself a particularly serrated personality and fuzzy comments just wouldn't do. I knew the supposedly supplicant Ms. Smith was to blame.

I tried my best to counteract whatever spell had been used to lighten up my grading policies. I was unable to, and the next day I claimed all papers had been destroyed in a potion explosion (which was true) and would have to be written again. I told my classes that they had The Golden Trio to thank for it.

I don't agree with the love-at-first-sight philosophy. Seeing the one you love and knowing her before you love her is an odd thing. I watched a precocious, bright child turn into a witty, fiercely intelligent woman before my unnoticing eyes. To love her when I first saw her would have been a crime. What I did was no crime, at least in my view. What happened between us was something else entirely.


End file.
